Even the building hates you. Even the building wants to see you cast out into the eyes of the jury, it wants to see you struck down and unwraveled on the pavement. It wants to see you dead. Everyone does. You don't deserve to be alive at this point, your sins weigh you down as heavy shackles on your mind. The path of bloodied and broken footsteps and things behind you writhe, glistening and reaching out to you. You choose to delve deeper.

The path to your personal hell is paved with blood and sharp shards of bone, bathed in red light with the taste of blood on your tounge. A part of you wants to stay. A part of you deserves to stay. You keep going up the stairs, catching glimpses of the night sky outside. It's hostile, staring at you as you are them. You cannot tell if it is real.

Eventually, you're brought before a door. This is where they find you and finally take you out of this. This is where the blood pours to, the river flows.

You knock, not knowing what you'll encounter next.